


Anything

by whereismygarden



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-06
Updated: 2013-07-06
Packaged: 2017-12-17 20:21:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,719
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/871584
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whereismygarden/pseuds/whereismygarden
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lady Belle summons the legendary Rumpelstiltskin to protect her people from invasion.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Anything

**Author's Note:**

> From prompts on tumblr: moonlight; crossroads; tickling; battle of wits.

                Gaston still isn’t one hundred percent on board with the plan, but he comes along anyway, his great white warhorse dwarfing her brown mare. She’s glad of the hollow comfort his presence brings as they ride along. The night is foggy, her lantern casting a fuzzy light that the droplets of mist catch and throw back. It does little to illuminate the road. The clopping of Daisy’s hooves and the louder ring of Baron’s iron shoes sound dim, muffled by the fog as well. Everything smells wet and dull, as if the night is determined to render them as helpless and blinded as possible.

                The way gets easier as the road slopes up, and the fog turns to twisting streamers instead of a thick mist. The thick clouds part as well, letting a few beams of moonlight shine on their way. Belle takes it as a good sign, the presence of light, though she knows that the weather cares nothing for their venture.

                Their destination is nearly fog-free, washed in white by the moon. The path through the forest crosses the main road here, and that is all they need. There are many ways of summoning legends, according to the tales, but this one felt the surest, the realest, though Gaston favored tossing coins into a well. She rebuked him, since that would take no effort. Legends want effort. They want to know that their supplicants care.

                Such behavior from a person would appall her, but she doesn’t have a choice here, as she dismounts and pulls the small bundle of straw from her cloak pocket and lights it from the lantern. Legends have different rules, and she’ll follow them to get what she needs.

                “Rumpelstiltskin,” she said. “Rumpelstitltskin, I summon thee.” The straw is nearly scorching her hand and she lets it drop to the center of the crossroads, calling out the last, third time. “Rumpelstiltskin!” The straw flares brighter for a moment, then burns for a long minute, eventually dying down to ash, and they stand around hot embers, anticipation stretched to the edge. Baron shifts his hooves uneasily and neighs.

                “Nice horse,” a sly voice says, from the shadows, and Belle’s breath catches in her throat. She’s gratified to hear Gaston give a sort of gasp as well, though he said, as they left, sword brandished, that he was not afraid. It’s not a kind thought, but she’s not a kind person tonight.

                “Show yourself!” she calls out, throat dry, and a figure steps into the light, shorter than Gaston and cloaked in a deep hood. She can make out laced boots and nothing more: the legend likes to be elusive in terms of description, then.

                “Rumpelstiltskin,” he announces, in the same sneering, giggling tone as before. It should be childish, but it’s terrifying, the way it announces the world is his plaything. The creature standing before her is nearly a god, and she would bargain with him. But the Reul Ghorm helped not, so the crueler legend is what they turn to now. “But who are _you_?” He reaches out a clawed hand to point accusingly at her, and Belle backs into Daisy’s nose. She strokes the soft nose of her horse as she tries to calm down.

                “Lady Belle,” she says, and looks at his hooded face, trying for where his eyes should be. He giggles, a high-pitched titter that makes her skin crawl. “And this is Sir Gaston,” because he doesn’t seem inclined to say anything, remaining seated on Baron. Rumpelstiltskin turned as if surprised to see the man.

                “He didn’t call me here, _you_ did. What is your request? Wealth? Safety for the two of you as you flee from disapproving elders? A child?”

                “Ogres approach our land.” He seems startled to be cut off. “We ask protection.” The legend chuckles and makes a sharp gesture.

                “Well, I can certainly provide that. For a price.”

                “We have gold, jewels.” His posture is a sneer. Belle takes Baron’s bridle. “Gaston’s horse is lovely.” Gaston makes an outraged noise, and then sighs.

                “Yes,” he agrees, though stiltedly. “Anything you wish.” Belle punches him in the leg and hisses through her teeth. Bringing him was a poor choice after all.

                “My deal’s with the lady. Does she too offer me… _anything_?” She doesn’t like the suggestive tone in his voice, or the mocking one. Standing up straight, she adjusts her cloaks and raises her head.

                “Hardly. Set a fair price, and we’ll meet it.” He titters again and steps forward, but not close enough that she can see under his hood.

                “A fair price? For saving all of your lives? _Anything_ is a fair price, my lady.”

                “Well, if you _ask_ anything, I offer you this lantern. Surely it falls under the category of anything?” She can’t quite believe she spoke so to Rumpelstiltskin, the legend, but after a long moment, he laughs, deeper, a little more genuine.

                “I haven’t asked yet,” he says, voice amused, and she nods, primly. His head turns toward Gaston and he snaps his fingers. “Any ideas?” Gaston only gapes a little, lost for words when he’s not posturing. “You, my lady, any ideas beyond the lantern?”

                “A lock of my hair?” she jests, and he takes another step, letting down his hood. She manages to do no more than twitch at the sight of him: his face is discolored and roughened, his eyes warped and teeth dirty. He reaches up and runs his hand through her hair, and the skin of his hand is affected the same way.

                “Pretty, but not worth an entire nation. Maybe an outlying village.” She winces at the casual way he speaks of human _life_ , and glares.

                “You didn’t ask to touch it,” she says loftily, willing her voice still, wondering at what point he’ll tire of this and kill them. But he only smiles a little at her challenge, and tilts his head in acknowledgement.

                “May I?” he asks, voice deeper than before, and she’s not sure how to receive his request.

                “If you consider my idea for a price,” she says, and he smiles, showing his rotting teeth.

                “Deal,” he agrees, and touches her hair again, twisting his fingers through her loose curls. “What’s your idea?”

                “A challenge,” she says. “You have to be quiet, silent for two minutes. No matter what happens.” He removes his hand from her hair and folds his arms, lips curving into a smirk.

                “What are you going to do?”

                “ _Anything_ I want to,” she replies, and his eyes light up. “And if I win, we are safe.”

                “And if I keep silent?”

                “Then you can ask me for anything.” He laughs outright, then composes himself.

                “If you like. But it’s hard to hurt me.” He holds his hand out and comes up with a curved glass, sand collected in the bottom. “Two minutes exactly. And we can start— _now_.” The glass flips and hovers in the air, and Belle steps close to him. She has no doubt that he could stand more pain than she could ever inflict in silence, but that is not her plan.

                She eases her hands under his cloak and vest, until she’s touching the silk of his shirt. He’s still smirking, rolling his eyes at her, and she knows what he expects. But two minutes is not enough time for that either, so she digs her fingers into his stomach and moves them, tickling, and sees his jaw clamp shut in shock. His muscles tighten under her fingers, strong but not unbeatable, and she continues, moving up his ribs and then  back down to his stomach, as the sand trickles through the glass. His breath is now uneven but too quiet to call him out for, and he wants to twitch away from her, grinning now because he can’t help it.

                “Did you know that I am acknowledged by all the children of the castle as the best tickler?” she says as innocently as possible, and his mouth twitches as she continues tickling, and then he barks a laugh, with a good ten seconds of grain still in the glass. She sways, she’s so relieved, and lets her hands go limp at her sides.

                “That’s not what I expected,” he says, still laughing, and strokes her hair again. “You won, fair and square, through my failure of imagination.” He steps back, taking her hand and kissing it like a knight would, and throws his hood back up. “Your land will be safe. Though I’d take it as a kindness if you said you beat me in a game of riddles.” Belle smiles back at him, and curtsies.

                “I’ll say I sold my soul at the crossroads.” But he’s gone, puffed away with the mist, and it’s a long ride back to the castle. She goes with a surprisingly heavy heart, and it’s not until a few weeks later, as she’s chuckling over some passage in one of her books, that she realizes she would like more conversation with Rumpelstiltskin. More dueling with sharp tongues instead of the swords everyone in the castle favors.

                Her days fill with meetings and rides out with the other ladies, planning for visits from the king and arguing with her father about arranging her marriage with Gaston. Her oldest friend isn’t keen on it either, but he doesn’t complain as much as she does.

                So she tosses a coin into the well and whispers his name three times one evening, when she’s alone.

                “Need me so soon again?” She didn’t expect her idle wish to be granted, so she jumps and turns to see him, wearing a long fitted coat instead of his loose dark cloak this time.

                “I just want to talk,” she says, perching on the edge of the well.” He gives her a smirk and raises a finger.

                “Everything comes with a price,” he says, and gives her a hopeful look.

                “Name your price.”

                “Well, I never got to tickle you.” For a moment, she only gapes, then laughs.

                “Just don’t ask me to be quiet.”

                They end up stifling laughter on the stone of the courtyard, her pressed to his back and his hands moving over her stomach. His hands are stronger than hers, and when they move onto talking, it’s sitting against the well, casually, her skirts pulled up to her knees and his coat tossed to the side.

                The meeting at the well becomes tradition until it gets too cold, and Belle suggests they move to her room. It’s softer on the bed, and the pillows convenient for muffling laughter. Her books are there too, and they can study and debate without fear of weather or someone else crossing the courtyard. Slowly, as she goes to balls and festivals as Gaston’s bride-to-be and he tumbles maids in stables, their visits become the best part of her days. She lives for the mock fight they invariably begin with, trying to talk about the topic of the day, or week, or month without laughing as the other tickled. When they’re both reduced to giggling, reclining together on her bed or sitting at the little table she keeps in the room, the real talk starts. It doesn’t matter that she’s sitting in her whitewashed stone room, during their talks she’s wherever they’re talking about: the temples of old Avonlea, or the ruins of giants’ castle, or the fields of poppies in other realms, beyond their world.

                No one notices: they meet late, when everyone knows she’s busy reading or sewing. She misses him at dances and affairs of state that last long into the night, or when his deals take him to far places. But they both come back with tales to tell, and she wonders how her closest friend—because she and Gaston grew distant when he told her, coldly, that he didn’t care she didn’t want the engagement—is a legend she once summoned with a straw fire at a crossroads.

                Sometimes she wonders how he feels, the legend she sees as a man, touching a woman betrothed to another. He makes her too warm, when they tussle, and her heart hammers at every touch until the point where she’s laughing too much to breathe, much less think about desire. She recognizes her lust though, and can’t quite regret that it’s the deal-maker who’s sparked it. He never indicates anything other than friendship, never repeating the insinuations he made at their first meeting. Just his posturing, and she’s taken off his mask. There’s no desire for her under it.

                They know each other well now, every spot along her ribs and his, and one day in the middle of winter they end up with her pinned on her back underneath him. Suddenly she’s breathing hard not from their usual scuffle but from his presence mere inches from her face. His breath is always sweet, like lemon balm, despite his stained teeth, and she reaches up before courage fails her, grabs a fistful of his hair, and pulls his mouth down to hers. His soft gasp, “ _ye_ s,” melts something in her, and she wraps her arms around his middle, trying to pull him close. His lips press at hers, then his tongue flicks at her, and soon they’re both moaning into the other’s mouth.

                “Rumpelstiltskin,” she gasps, as he resumes tickling in the middle of the kiss, and at her voice, his hands turn to teasing, slow caresses of her waist and sides, and she tugs at the scarf at his neck, mouth occupied with his tongue once more. His boots are there one moment and gone the next, and her hands find their way under his shirt after she pulls off his vest.

                “Belle,” he pants into her mouth. “Are you sure? You have to say yes for me.” His nuzzling and biting at her neck is no deterrent, and she smiles.

                “You can have your _anything_ now, Rumpelstiltskin. Anything you want of me, at all.” He moans at her words, and moves his hips against hers. She can feel his cock, grown hard inside his leather breeches, and goes short of breath at the sudden, clear thought of him inside her. With another hasty kiss to his lips, she moves her hand down to touch him, pulling at the ties that keep his clothes closed. Then her hand is wrapped around his cock, and he groans, thrusting a little. It’s thick and hot in her hand, and she thinks clinically, far too thick for her little opening, but he pulls up her skirt with careful hands. She promised him anything, and she knows he’ll be careful.

                Neither of them said it, but he loves her, and she him. He puts his hand at her opening and breaches her with a finger first, moving it around. Still, it’s not easy to let him add another, and another still has her whimpering.

                “It’s fine,” she whispers. “I want to have you in me, it’ll pass.” It does, as he rubs her beneath her thatch of hair with his fingers slick with her own juice and makes her cry out in ecstasy, shattering under his touch.

                When he does push inside her with his cock, mumbling into her hair, it isn’t painless but it isn’t agony, and he leans down to kiss her as he rocks his hips.

                “Why a moonlit crossroads?” she asks, and he groans.

                “ _Now_ , you’re going to ask me this?” She nods and pushes her hips up to meet him. “Traditional. To make deals there. Predates me, definitely.”

                “I like our deal,” she says.

                “Like to make another?” he offers, though he’s still inside her, hard and unfulfilled. She tilts her head in question. “You don’t love your betrothed.”

                “He’s my friend,” she says, wondering what’s in his mind. He’s gone still, and speaks into her neck.

                “I’ve no wife myself. I think I could provide a better bride-price, if it comes down to base bargaining with your gold-hungry folk.” She can’t even muster up outrage at his apparent readiness to pay off Gaston’s family.

                “Mmm, what if the bride is already ruined?” she asks, playfully, and he kisses the corner of her mouth and speaks in his offhand, sneering voice for a moment.

                “Well, I’ll take anything.”  


End file.
